


Sleep Mode Beauty

by Cameron_McKell



Category: Tron - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cameron_McKell/pseuds/Cameron_McKell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let me tell you a story, kiddo..." Years later, Sam sets out to prove the stories true, and save the day. He really should have known what he was getting himself into...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Owe You A Love Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/177585) by [shirozora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirozora/pseuds/shirozora). 



“Once upon a time there was a land called the Grid. Within the Grid there lived many programs. Their lives revolved around three things: the energy springs that fed and healed them, the many games of skill held at the Arena, and the infrequent visits of their ruler- their User- Kevin Flynn. Flynn had been the Grid's User since the Grid's founding, and he cared very much for his loyal programs-”

 

“Until the ISO appeared, right?”

 

“Hush, kiddo. It's rude to interrupt. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Flynn cared for his programs, but he had other duties that often called him far away, sometimes for cycles at a time. So, during his absence, he would entrust the health and stability of the Grid to the powerful CLU, a program capable of many User abilities like Flynn, though not all. For the safety of the Grid, though, Flynn would always turn to Tron, a rather reserved yet extremely skilled program that had crossed paths with Flynn long before the founding of the Grid, though, as with all programs, he hadn't seemed to age even a day since then. The programs of the Grid were always very sad to see their User go, but their steadfastness, their belief of Flynn's own devotion to them in return helped the decicycles pass as if they were nanocycles. But then, one day...”

 

“The ISO appeared.”

 

“That's right, but there's a bit... more to it than that. One day, as Flynn and his two advisers and good friends were walking along the Sea of Simulation at the eastern border of the Grid, a figure slowly walked up out of the black waves. She had a strange mark on her arm, and while she had circuitry like a program, it was white, like the circuitry that appeared on Flynn each time he returned to the Grid. Flynn was fascinated and excited by her sudden appearance, and rushed her off the shore back to his palatial home, oblivious to the two programs he'd left behind.”

 

“By the time the two programs walked back, the not-User, had been settled into her own room, free to explore in child-like wonder, while Flynn examined her light disk. CLU attempted to scold Flynn for leaving him and Tron behind, but the User brushed his comments aside in his excitement, instead rambling about the strange uniqueness the girl had, and what it could do for the lands outside of the Grid. Feeling shunned, CLU slipped away as soon as he could, while Tron stayed behind to listen to his friend, happy so long as the User was.”

 

“The rest of Flynn's visit was dominated by his fascination with the isomorphic algorithm, who had taken to calling herself Quorra. Her innocence was endearing to him, but her adaptability, and ability to be unpredictable grabbed most of his attention. He would spend his days watching her learn and evolve, while Tron or CLU tried unsuccessfully to tell him of their concerns over the energy levels in some of the springs throughout the Grid beginning to decrease. He was gone for many decicycles, during which time CLU retreated further into himself, Quorra learned and explored through Flynn's home, and Tron divided his time between watching over the girl, and protecting the Grid, all while the energy springs became smaller and weaker, until one dried up altogether.”

 

“But, didn't the programs need them to live?”

 

“Exactly right, kiddo. Unfortunately, the only one with the ability to fix the springs was Flynn, and by the time he came back, his mind was focused solely on the ISO girl Quorra. This time around, CLU just watched as Tron tried again to pry their User's attention away, his processes jagged with hurt at the thought that one girl seemed to have completely eclipsed the spot in Flynn's heart for the many  programs waiting devotedly, many of them suffering the effects of strict energy rationing CLU himself had finally announced. Feeling abandoned by the User, CLU hardened his processes, and slipped away to plan his own way to save the Grid.”

 

“After some time, Flynn registered that Tron had abruptly stopping speaking, and turned to look curiously at his long-time friend, only to clumsily catch the program as his body collapsed from a sudden standby protocol forced into action to protect the program from damage due to nearly spent energy reserves. You see, Tron was a very powerful security program, and to be even just a good security program required a great deal of energy. Tron could have used this argument to keep a very healthy ration of energy to himself, but instead had insisted on the same, scant ration as every other program in the Grid. This would have been enough to keep him online and functioning, if not for the fact that half of what little he received he generally ended up giving to Quorra, not wanting such a young, innocent (not)program to worry about the shortage, or suffer unduly. After all, she brought Flynn, his adoptive User, such happiness.”

 

“It was ironic, Tron had said after being revived, that his suddenly stopping talking had caught more of Flynn's attention than his previous microcycles of pleading. The User was ashamed by this, and promised to be more attentive to his poor programs. He then immediately left the program's side, Quorra watching wide-eyed over her protector, to the energy spring that had gone dead. He restored the spring in brilliant fashion, User talents in full force as he ensured the spring would never fade out again. He was stopped from fixing the other springs however, who were not going to last much longer either, when a frantic, and devastating message reached him. He had to leave, immediately.”

 

“Was Tron okay?”

 

“Yeah, kiddo. He was really tired and starving, but Tron was a tough program. Anyway, this separation was probably the longest to date; it was a whole decacycle before Kevin Flynn returned to the Grid. The streets were deserted, cold and dark. Everywhere he looked, it was the same, ports and byways that should have been teeming with programs were eerily silent. There was nothing... almost. A pair of sentries approached him, the angry red-orange glow of their armor standing out brilliantly in the dark, for no other reason than there was no other light around to compare it with. He had planned to greet the two guards, get some answers maybe, when they turned their weapons on him. The User was literally shocked into movement, poked and prodded up the path to his own home.”

 

“CLU was waiting for him. He gazed back at the User with contempt and hurt, before mockingly welcoming the Mighty User back to the Grid. 'Not how you expected it to be?' he'd asked, then gestured back the way Flynn had come. 'You left them to die.' Flynn tried to explain what had happened, why he couldn't come back sooner, but he'd found someone to watch his young son while he came to help. CLU just seemed to get angrier, though, finally learning some of the reason why Flynn left so often, and for so long. It was just another thing the User valued more than his poor programs, the gold-circuited program figured. 'They don't need you,' CLU finally responded, turning his back on his former User, adding over his shoulder that for _once,_ someone was here, working to help the programs, save them from the ill effects of the ISO.”

 

“The ISO made all the energy springs dry up, right?”

 

“All but one, but yeah, that's what CLU thought, at least. It didn't really matter what the others thought, though, since he'd forced almost every program in the Grid into sleep mode, suspending the programs until a leader who loved them could save them, and CLU was determined to be that leader. Flynn tried to argue, tried to simply help and let CLU rule the Grid, but the program would have none of it. He threatened Flynn, that if he so much as came back to this land, he would have the ISO, sleeping peacefully like any normal program, thrown back into the sea, still trapped asleep. Perhaps deep inside, CLU hoped this threat would knock sense into the User, and he'd realize how badly he'd neglected his programs for just one creature, but it almost had the exact opposite effect. Horrified, Flynn fled the home, pausing to glance up to Quorra's window, where a dark shape watched, sparse red-orange circuitry highlighting the program's slightly hunched figure. He was just close enough to pick up the faint sound of purring from the unknown program in the otherwise silent air, before Flynn... left the Grid. He didn't know what else to do.”

 

“But, do the programs get saved? Does CLU become the Grid's User? Does he ever toss the ISO into the sea? What about Tron?”

 

“As far as I know, the Grid's still there, waiting to be saved. CLU doesn't have the all the powers of a User, and without them, he'll never be able to save them.”

 

“So all those programs are just stuck sleeping forever?”

 

“Hopefully not, kiddo. Someday, I'm sure a User will find their way to the Grid and save them. Eventually...”

 

“That's slow... and boring. I could do it!”

 

“You're still a little too young, kiddo. Maybe when you're older you can try. Say... twenty years from now?

 

“That's like... a gajillion millicycles!”

 

“Uh huh, sure. Good night, kiddo.”

 

“Will you tell me more stories tomorrow?”

 

“Sure thing, kiddo, but let's stick with the happier stories from now on, deal?”

 

“...Deal.”


	2. Chapter 1

Sam Flynn didn't have a normal childhood.

 

When he was younger, his father used to travel all the time. That in itself wasn't too unusual, other than the fact his father wasn't an explorer, trader, messenger, diplomat, or _any_ profession that called for travel, really. He'd asked his father about it once, when he was old enough to understand this was unusual.

 

That was the first time his father sat him down, and said, “Let me tell you a story, kiddo...”

 

It became a routine, after that. He'd count the days until his father would return, and each night until he left once again, he would regale Sam with all sorts of stories about the Grid, and the mysterious 'programs' that lived there. Often the stories would be told as grand adventures featuring his father and the program Tron, sometimes CLU as well, though more often he was overseeing the system.

 

Sam loved the stories. Even when it became clear that boys his age shouldn't be listening to bedtime stories anymore, he couldn't get enough. Each time his father left, he asked to come with him, and he'd just smile and say, “Someday, kiddo.” Things had been good, a bit lonely, but good.

 

Then his mother died.

 

His father had been very distracted on his last few visits, so there hadn't been any stories, and now, neither of them were in a frame of mind for them. It was a long time before his father left again...

 

He came back almost immediately.

 

Sam wondered about it for a while, but mostly he was happy his father was with him, or else he would've been alone.

 

Until he heard the story of his father's last adventure.

 

Up to that point, he'd figured the stories were made up mostly, just something his father would tell him to occupy him while he was gone. If anything, there was maybe a tiny kernel of truth in them. After that, though, his young mind was convinced of their complete realism.

 

His father had been crying when he told it to him, the first time.

 

As he grew older, he asked about the Grid now and then. Most of the time his father avoided the subject, but sometimes... He'd tell him the stories again.

 

They changed, bit by bit, but so did the person telling them. His father never left anymore, worked odd jobs here and there to make ends meet. He spoke very little to others, though Sam could usually coax him into conversation if he insisted. He smiled even less. Sam once joked that there was a black raincloud hovering over his head all the time. His father had replied that it wasn't a cloud of _rain_ that followed him everywhere. He'd looked eastward, then.

 

He always looked eastward after moments like that.

 

He told his friends about the stories, once. He retold a few, even – the older ones, happy and filled with hope and adventure. They seemed to enjoy them, until it became obvious to them that Sam actually thought they were _real._ A faraway city of light, ancient heroes that never aged, giant swarms of all-consuming insects, vehicles that moved almost incomprehensibly fast? Pure fantasy. Sam disagreed.

 

His father had fretted over his blackened eye for a week.

 

Afterward, his father seemed to have come to a decision. He actively engaged Sam in conversations, and found steady employment. He stopped looking eastward.

 

He stopped telling stories.

 

While Sam was glad to have his father back, his thoughts still lingered over the last story of a world of light surrounded by darkness, and the inhabitants trapped within. No one else was going to save them; the only people who knew they were there was Sam, and his father... and Kevin Flynn had been banished from that place. So that left Sam.

 

_He_ would save them.

 

Long distance travel, physical hardships, violent guards, possible gridbugs, saving the ISO, confronting CLU...

 

...Maybe he should grow up a _little_ bit more, first, his eleven year old sensibilities told him. At least the programs weren't in danger of _dying_ any time soon, right?...

 

* * *

 

Sam added the last few items to the already over-filled backpack, mentally checking off each item on his list, before settling the heavy pack on his shoulders. He glanced back one last time to take in the space that had been his, and his alone, for as long as he could remember. Most of his belongings were now strapped to his back, but there were some he couldn't take with him: his bed, a small table covered with papers, and Marvin, his small body plopped right in the middle of the bed to take up as much room as possible, fast asleep. He'd considered bringing him along more than once, to keep him company, if nothing else, but Marv wasn't suited to the sort of journey he was planning, and Sam would rather he stay here, safe and sound, than possibly get hurt or killed to give him someone to talk to.

 

He'd just have to apologize to him if – _when_ – he came back.

 

Satisfied he had everything, Sam slunk out into the hall, carefully maneuvering around each creaky step, past the open doorway to the kitchen, to the door outside, and all the possibilities waiting beyond it. After three times as long as one would expect a short trip down some stairs and through a hallway to take, his fingertips brushed over the handle.

 

This was one of the trickier parts...

 

The young man crouched low, careful not to overbalance with the backpack upon shifting his center of gravity, and slid his free hand under the door. Lifting the door ever so slightly, he swung the otherwise horrendously squeaky door wide open with barely a groan, and stood back up.

 

“I always wondered how you got in and out of here without waking me up.”

 

There, in the kitchen doorway, stood his father.

 

Sam decided to avoid the unspoken questions he could see flickering through Kevin's eyes for now, and try to make a joke, make it seem like he wasn't doing exactly what his father thought he was doing. “Yeah, well I figured that if I fixed the door you'd think I was trying to sneak in and out at night, which was true. I had to throw you off my scent somehow. If it makes you believe me any more, I promise that I haven't done it very often?”

 

'Not very often' meaning about every other night for the last ten years, of course, but his dad didn't need to know that.

 

Kevin Flynn chuckled to himself for a moment, before his expression sobered, his gaze drawn to the heavy backpack on Sam's shoulders. “... So you're going, then?”

 

“...Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

 

“There isn't a way I can convince you to stay?”

 

“I've done the math, Dad. Don't you think that 1,000 years is enough time for them to wait to be helped?” Sam ran a hand through his hair, gripped it for a moment, and let go. He shifted his weight, then took one step back toward his father. “No one else knows they're there, Dad; the odds of a stranger finding the place, not to mention waking the programs, is ridiculously low. All I think of, every night, is 'What if I don't wake up? Can't wake up?' They could be stuck in 1,000 years of nightmares... I want to, no, I _need_ to help them. You said yourself that they can't save themselves.”

 

Kevin opened his mouth to respond, then closed it after a few moments. He ran both hands through his hair in a manner similar to his son, evidence of who had taught that tic to the younger man, and shuddered. He almost seemed to sink in on himself at that point, familiar sorrow once again hanging over him; Sam was almost positive it had never really left. “I know you want to help them, kiddo. I understand that. I also understand, though, just how dangerous that place can be. You didn't see CLU's face all those years ago, I did. That sort of... _hate_ doesn't get better with time. Even if CLU were somehow gone, there's still the guards, and just getting there, for that matter. I don't... I don't want to lose you, too.”

 

“I know you don't, Dad,” Sam replied softly, taking one more step back toward his father. The floor squeaked under his foot as he reached out to squeeze an aging shoulder gently. He stepped back once, hesitated, dropped his gaze, then began carefully wording his reply, “You were their everything, Dad. You've told me all sorts of amazing things the programs could do, not to mention all the User tricks that CLU actually _can_ do. With all of that going for them, they still needed you, loved you, heck, they _worshiped_ you... but between here, and the programs, and that ISO girl Quorra, there just wasn't enough Flynn to go around. Now, there is.” At this point, he looked up and locked his gaze on his father's, determined to make him understand.

 

“Your stories taught me a lot of things when I was younger. You and Tron didn't hesitate to fight against the Master Control Program when it was persecuting programs before the Grid, and when the gridbugs started swarming all over the Grid when it was new, it was you and Tron again at the front fighting them back because you had the ability to help those who couldn't fight them off. You probably told me hundreds of stories like this, stories of helping people that couldn't help themselves. Sure, I missed having you around sometimes, but you and Tron were my heroes; I looked up to you so much, and now I want to _be_ that sort of person too, one who never hesitates to help those that need it, and a whole _lot_ of people need it in the Grid.” Sam straightened up, hands absentmindedly drifting up to the straps of his backpack to resettle the load, and waited.

 

Kevin Flynn stood there, and just looked at his son for a long time. The smile he finally offered his son was a painful thing, but so very proud. “...Huh. When did you turn into such an amazing person, kiddo?” The smile he got in reply was just as shaky as his own. After a moment's consideration, he nodded to himself, then brushed past Sam, and back down the hall his son had just crept down. Somewhat confused, Sam was almost to the outside door once more, when his father's footsteps began making their creaky way back to him. Expecting a goodbye, or maybe a map, Sam was a bit surprised when instead his father held out a strange metal cylinder. “What is it?”

 

“It's a special tool from the Grid. Only programs can make it work other places, but it can help you along the way, and when you get there.” Kevin placed the deceptively light item into his son's hands, and pulled him into a fierce hug, which Sam eagerly returned. “I love you, kiddo.”

 

“I love you too, Dad.”

 

“Try to stay out of trouble if you can.”

 

“I'm a Flynn, trouble is my occupation, but I'll try.”

 

“...Tell them I'm sorry?”

 

“If everything goes the way I hope, you can tell them that yourself.”

 

“Oh, Sam...”

 

They broke apart then, and Sam turned to the door. Just before crossing it, though, he glanced back. “Hey, Dad...”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Don't dress Marv up in any silly costumes while I'm gone.”

 

The sound of his father's laughter echoed along after him as the door screeched shut.


	3. Chapter 2

Sam had been traveling eastward for almost a week on foot. In all that time, he had expected to run into other travelers; the odds of an encounter, _any_ encounter were good, even just a brief 'Hello' exchanged in passing. There had been no one, though. Behind and before him, the road seemed to stretch endlessly. The surrounding area seemed as empty of life as the road; other than the occasional sweep of wind through the trees, it was silent, almost restful.

 

It was driving Sam crazy.

 

His mind was caught in a loop, churning over the isolation of his circumstances, both current, and in the future, upon arriving at the Grid. This led his thoughts to the plight of the programs, and his determination to help them, unfortunately followed by some self-doubt – What did _he_ know about programs and how to save them, anyway? - and contemplation of his potential failure. The cycle completed a revolution by Sam contemplating the loneliness of the programs trapped in their isolated world, and the nature of his current isolation. Emotionally exhausted by the strong, uninterrupted thoughts, he didn't notice the other noises at first. They were coming from behind him.

 

He almost shouted for joy at the plume of dust kicked up into the air in the distance.

 

Self-awareness took the opportunity to make several facts known to Sam: firstly, he hadn't had a suitable opportunity to bathe since he left home, and the smell wafting of him was not pleasant, secondly, he was abnormally interested in the presence of another living creature in the area, and was doing a fair impersonation of a crazy person, and thirdly, he didn't know who was approaching him, and that someone – or someones – could _actually_ be a crazy person. After considering the facts a moment, Sam did the more reasonable thing he could think of. There wasn't any foliage big enough nearby to hide behind, and he had probably already been spotted, so he walked about ten feet off the  road, and kept walking; he was still close enough to engage the stranger if they were friendly, but far enough away that if they weren't, he'd have a decent head-start for running away. It took a monumental amount of effort to refrain from glancing back over his shoulder, but he managed, walking along with a carefully projected air of nonchalance.

 

The various sounds of the other's – or others' – approach grew louder, until they were almost _right there_ with Sam. Then, they stopped altogether.

 

“I didn't expect to see anyone traveling this way,” the stranger observed in place of a greeting, standing halfway between Sam and his transportation. He was an older man, pale haired and well dressed. His expression was guarded, but not hostile, and he took a moment to casually slide his spectacles back into place.

 

Sam shrugged his backpack up a little higher on his shoulders. “Yeah? Why not, if you don't mind me asking?”

 

“There's another road out to the cities this way, it's a fair deal faster. Only sentimentalists and the lost take this road. So, which are you?”

 

Huffing out a brief laugh, Sam hesitated over his reply. “... A little bit of both, I suppose. And you?”

 

The stranger's somewhat chilly demeanor thawed a bit. “Me? I'm _definitely_ a sentimentalist. Not particularly lost, though; I've been traveling this road for almost thirty years now. I've got a lot of memories tied to this place, some good, others... not so much.” He removed his spectacles, absently wiping their lenses clean as he came to a decision. “Did you need a ride?” Out from behind the glass and metal momentarily, the man's eyes seemed softer somehow, almost nostalgic; once the frames were resettled, though, the expression disappeared into ambivalence.

 

Sam assessed the man and, reasonably sure he could defend himself easily enough if things got out of hand, shrugged and started walking over. “Sure, why not? I'm Sam, by the way.”

 

The man shook Sam's hand when he was close enough, “Alan.” He didn't say any more until they were both settled and underway again. “So what brings you out this way, Sam?”

 

Sam hesitated over his reply, trying to figure out some version of the truth that wouldn't leave the man, Alan, doubting his sanity; he'd been faced with that doubt many times during his life back home, and frankly, he was sick of it. “My father used to come out this way when I was little. His last trip left a whole mess of unfinished business behind, so I'm going to go take care of it, if I can.”

 

Alan nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. I take it from the lack of details that it's a rather, um... _personal_ matter?” He paused, and when Sam nodded in confirmation, continued, “I thought so. I guess I can understand the reasoning, some, at least. Leaving something unfinished never sits well with me. An old friend of mine, Kevin, used to say that I had an instinctive need for everything to be secure and at peace; I guess unresolved issues fall into that category.” His mouth quirked in a brief, half-smile, before sobering with a small cough. “Sorry. My thoughts tend toward better days when I go this way.”

 

Sam waved the apology off. “Don't worry about it; everyone gets nostalgic now and – wait... Would this 'Kevin' you mentioned be Kevin _Flynn,_ by any chance?” The odds were astronomical, but Sam found himself hoping.

 

Alan looked confused, but nodded anyway. “Yeah; he used to come this way all the time, and I'd give him rides, as long as we were headed the same direction. I haven't seen him in... about twenty years, though. Why?” A small trace of suspicion crept back into the older man's face.

 

Sam huffed out a weak laugh. “He's my father; I'm Sam Flynn. Did he... ever tell you about where he was going?” The thought of Kevin Flynn sharing stories of the Grid with random strangers left Sam somewhat uncomfortable – conveniently forgetting the fact that he shared some of the stories _himself_ for the moment – so he was rather unprepared for the wistful sigh and faraway gaze that was Alan's initial reply.

 

It was several moments before Alan expanded on his answer. “He used to tell these stories, sometimes... A glowing city in a land of eternal night, impossible beings engaging in vast contests of skill, flying archways... not to mention the older stories, with him and – … I always wondered where his inspiration spot was for thinking up these stories, I even tried to find one of his books, but I guess he never got them printed?” He glanced over at Sam, expression guarded again and somewhat... secretive? “I know it's crazy, but a part of me always kind of wished his stories were true, to be able to see his 'Grid' in person. But that's impossible.” He ended there with a firm shake of his head, as if convincing himself just as much as declaring the impossibility.

 

Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Alan had clearly heard some of the stories, but hadn't quite made the connection to their realism; only Sam had done that, and the possibility that he'd heard a more thorough version, or shared some sort of special connection with the place through his father left Sam feeling warm and more at peace than he'd expected moments before. “I know what you mean.” A thought drifted through his head, then, deceptively innocuous. “'Older stories?'”

 

Alan almost seemed to flinch, before waving dismissively. “Just more stories; I'm sure you've heard all of them dozens of times.” His gazed flitted over their surroundings quickly, before he gestured toward the sky. “Did you see that bird just now? I wonder what kind it was; most animals avoid this place, birds _especially._ How strange...”

 

Almost against his will, the distraction worked on Sam thoroughly. “They avoid it? Why?”

 

His companion shrugged, and nodded his head up toward the sky. “No one's ever figured out why, but the birds tend to just... drop out of the sky, and break their necks. You would think that this would just mean more predators in this area, but all the other animals slowly migrated away, or starved to death; I once saw a bear near here; it very nearly frightened me to death, until I noticed it was sleeping. That bear should have been eating to store up energy for winter, but it was just as thin as I imagine it was in early spring. I used to see all sorts of napping critters, until they all left.”

 

A vague, and rather terrifying thought was trying to come into existence in Sam's brain, but he shoved it aside; if that thought turned out to be what he had a feeling it might be, he _really_ couldn't deal with it yet. Instead, he tried to think of something else to talk about. They eventually settled into light conversation about where they were both from, how Alan had met his wife – a, by the admittedly biased account of her husband, lovely woman by the name of Lora – , what the weather might be like tomorrow, and the like.

 

When they finally parted ways almost a day later, Sam completely missed the thoughtful look Alan aimed at his back, secretive and worried. But hopeful.

 

_So_ hopeful.

 

* * *

 

It was some time later before a rather important thought re-occurred to Sam; the sudden epiphany nearly caused him to trip and fall flat on his face onto the road.

 

How _was_ he going to find the Grid?

 

He knew it was somewhere to the east; his father's moments of painful longing had all been consistent in that respect, at least. Where was it _exactly_ , though? It had to be at least partially hidden, somehow, or random travelers would have stumbled across it right after it was founded. So, how was he going to _find_ it?

 

It wasn't until the next day after he'd parted ways with Alan, that he heard the 'tink' of shifting metal in his backpack, and remembered his father's words.

 

_“... it can help you along the way, and when you get there.”_

 

He pulled the silvery cylinder out of his backpack, and examined it, searching its surface for some hint, or hidden piece of advice.

 

Thin, delicate lines were etched into its surface, so smooth and precise that if one wasn't looking right at them, looking _for_ them, they would be near impossible to notice. No matter what angle he observed them from, however, Sam could not discern any sort of language or pattern to their placement; they weren't maps, or directions, or anything more than artful decoration to his untrained eye. Other than those decorations, though, he couldn't figure _anything_ out about the mysterious metal 'tool'.

 

Clenching the cylinder in one hand, Sam half turned to look back, unhappily considering the two-week-long trip to ask his father about it and come back, and the cylinder grew heavy in his hand.

 

Very heavy.

 

The device fell from fingers that hadn't been anticipating the sudden increase in weight in a usually negligibly light object, bounced once, and rolled a short distance on the dusty road. It was simply _impossible_ , the nature of that roll; the cylinder, instead of rolling straight, curved like it was actually a cone in disguise, until the main length of its body was facing slightly north of east, whereupon it decided it really _was_ a cylinder, and used up the remainder of its forward momentum, which was far more than seemed realistic for the nature of its accidental introduction to movement, rolling perfectly straight on the uneven ground as if it were glass. As if moving in that direction was the _easiest_ of tasks.

 

As if it was _being_ _pulled_ _that_ _way._

 

Sam stared at the device for several long moments.

 

“So that's what he meant,” he mumbled to the empty road, and scooped the rod up.

 

He swung the hand holding it in a slow, smooth arc, taking note of its shifting weight, the almost reluctance with which it faced any direction but the one it had aimed for, and the near weightlessness of it when it faced that particular direction, to the one place it _wanted_ to go.

 

To the one place where it _belonged_.

 

Sam was okay with that.

 

Holding the somewhat dusty metal cylinder out in front of him rather like a divining rod, Sam resumed his journey.

 

* * *

 

If he hadn't been holding the device in his hands at the time, Sam was positive he would have missed it.

 

For a total of ten days he had been traveling now, and the rod had been nearly vibrating for the last seven or so hours. His hands were stiff and cramped into claw-like curls from holding onto the same thing for days, and several times he'd been forced to put the thing away and hope he stayed on course with no road to guide him anymore, or run the risk of suddenly dropping and losing the cylinder, and possibly not even notice for a long time.

 

Thoughts about his dwindling supplies had been dominating his thoughts recently, so it had come as a  rather understandable surprise when the cylinder almost _jerked_ in his hand, to the left, toward an overgrown rock formation.

 

He had nearly walked right past it.

 

It was mostly unremarkable, other than the fact that this mound of jutting up rocks – a feature common to the area – was made of an entirely _different_ sort of rock. The stone – almost more like crystal – was glossy and black, prone to cracking and shearing in long, straight, rather geometric lines. Grasses, creepers, and other vegetation had taken root in the angles and crevices where airborne dirt had accumulated, expanding and growing to almost completely shroud the strange rocks from view. The plant life, with its messy, disorganized approach to life contrasted with the cold, striking, out of place stone, but together they hid the entrance well.

 

Even knowing where to look – and the device was _amazingly_ helpful in that regard – it took Sam half an hour to find it; obscured from above by hanging foliage, and amongst many a mirage reflecting in the long, smooth facets of the stone, was a cave opening just big enough to squeeze through, depending on the size of one's breakfast, and opinion about physical exercise.

 

Sam looked at himself, then at the hole, and felt confidence rise. He squared his shoulders, mentally preparing for what promised to be the most claustrophobic moment of his life.

 

His backpack shifted. Sam winced, and scrubbed a hand over his face.

 

“I forgot about that...”

 

* * *

 

With a final yank, Sam fell down, free from the rock his first attempt had seen fit to wedge him between. He stood up slowly, hands rubbing abused body parts – either by the journey here, or his recent attempt to become one with the earth – and set his backpack on the ground. His face shifted into a frown as he slowly paced around the pack, reluctant to leave it behind in order to continue – totally without supplies other than what he could carry in his hands while navigating an unknown cave – but at a loss for how to bring it with him – he would need his hands at least mostly free to feel his way through the dark, and the backpack was too big to accommodate that need. On one of his passes around the backpack, his foot caught in one of the shoulder straps, and he stumbled, the backpack dragging along behind him.

 

… He could work with that.

 

After several long moments spent rearranging the contents of the backpack and practicing without the added challenges of darkness and tight spaces, Sam stood at the mouth of the cave, one hand on the rock, the other holding the rod, and one leg threaded through one of the backpack's shoulder straps. He gave a last glance at his eerily still surroundings, before turning to the uncertain darkness, and squeezed in.


End file.
